Redemption in Three Acts
by PsychGirl
Summary: Things can really get off course if you're not careful.  Sometimes it takes an act of Nature to get them back.  PostTSbyBS.  And it's slash.


Disclaimer: Jim and Blair aren't mine, unfortunately. Please don't sue me.

Written for Sentinel Thursday on LJ, challenge #203 - closure

* * *

_Well, this wasn't what I expected at all_, Jim thought.

He was lying at a slant on something that felt faintly bumpy, and he wasn't in a lot of pain. Oh, there was pain – mostly in his right hip and leg, and his head – but it wasn't the excruciating, soul-rending pain he had imagined. He could hear cursing, though – a hoarse voice murmuring streams of invective. And he could hear water lapping nearby. Who'd ever heard of there being water in Hell?

Damn, but he was thirsty. He tried to swallow, only to find it like drinking sand. His clothes felt stiff and scratchy against him, like he'd been soaked in saltwater and left out to dry. He tried to raise his hand, rub his face, but his limbs felt heavy and he couldn't control them; they moved aimlessly against whatever it was that he was lying on.

He cracked his eyes open, blinking against the sudden bright light that brought tears to his eyes. The muttered cursing stopped and Blair Sandburg's face came into his field of vision.

Jim felt a sense of relief. Of course. If he was going to be tormented for all eternity by demons, it would only make sense that they'd look like Blair.

Blair's face disappeared, and then returned, hovering anxiously above him. He felt a gentle pressure against his lips, and then something trickled into his mouth. He coughed, surprised, then swallowed eagerly. Water - cool, sweet water - soothed his parched throat.

He frowned a little. That wasn't how it was supposed to work. You weren't supposed to get relief – that kind of subverted the whole purpose of eternal damnation. Unless it was some kind of bait-and-switch…

Blair's face had disappeared again, along with the water, but now it returned. Jim blinked, clearing his vision. He wondered why Blair looked so strange – tan, hair cut short, his eyes flat, his expression somber. You'd think, since it was _his_ damnation, he could have had Blair look like he remembered, like the image he carried in his heart. Dark, curly hair just a little too long, impish grin, sparkling blue eyes, dressed in layers of flannel and denim. Jim struggled to raise his head a little. Was Blair wearing a suit?

"You," Blair said, in a gravelly but furious tone, "are a fucking asshole."

Jim sighed. They were back with the program. Although he felt kind of duty-bound to tell someone that having Blair Sandburg curse at him was not exactly his idea of eternal suffering. He wondered who you would report that kind of thing to, and how. And would he get Blair in trouble? Of course, it wasn't _really_ Blair, just some kind of Blair-looking demon…but, still, it was the principle of the thing. He'd caused Blair enough trouble in life; he didn't really want to continue into the afterlife. He had to admit, however, that if Blair ever did become a demon, he'd undoubtedly be one who was in trouble most of the time.

He realized Blair was still talking and belatedly tuned in on what he was saying. "…broke your leg, or maybe dislocated it, I can't tell, but there's a big lump under the skin, and it's hot, and all I know to do is to immobilize it, so I broke up a chair in the kitchen, and found some sheets that I tore up for rags…"

That explained the pain in his leg, but the rest of what Blair was saying didn't make any sense. He'd heard of Hell's Kitchen, but there were chairs? And sheets?

"…how _heavy_ you are? I had to drag your fucking ass up three flights of stairs, so don't you fucking _dare_ bitch to me if you're sore tomorrow…"

He could hear the thread of panic in Blair's voice, growing deeper, and stronger, and he didn't understand why. He struggled mightily and managed to push himself up onto his elbows.

He was laying on a canted surface, made up of some kind of flat, rough, rectangular black plates. Blair was sitting cross-legged to his right and slightly above him. They were surrounded by water. And Blair _was_ wearing a suit.

Exhaustion washed over him and he dropped back down to lay supine. His head ached, and he felt lost. So…Hell was a lake? With strangely tilted rafts? And demons in suits?

The sky above him was blue, with fluffy white clouds, and he closed his eyes. He just wanted to sleep. He was sure, when he woke up, that things would be more along the lines of what he had expected…lakes of fire, clouds of brimstone, screams of the damned, pitchforks, all that sort of thing. Hell. But Blair's voice was breaking into his lethargy, forcing him to listen. Even dead, even cursed, he couldn't resist that voice.

"…God _damn_ it, Ellison, you are _not_ going to die on me out here, I swear…you fucking bastard…" And then there was something stinging his cheeks. He tried to pull away, put his hand up to block whatever it was. It must have worked, because the stinging stopped.

He opened his eyes again, to find Blair looking at him. His mouth was set in that mulish line that Jim knew only too well, but his eyes were strangely bright. As Jim watched, he blinked, and a tear ran down each side of his face.

Jim opened his mouth and tried to say something, but nothing came out. He swallowed, and licked his lips, and tried again. "Don't worry," he rasped. God, it didn't even sound like his voice. "Won't report you. Just need some rest. Then we can start again." He didn't want to get Blair in trouble, but he was so tired…

Why did Blair look so scared? "What the _hell_ are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice hoarse. Then his mouth trembled. "You don't remember, do you?" he said.

"Remember?"

"How we got here?"

_That_ was a loaded question. Jim frowned, thinking hard. He'd read the first chapter of Blair's diss, even though Blair had asked him not to. That had been wrong. But was that the start? Things had happened before that – times he'd snapped at Blair, hadn't trusted him, hadn't listened to him. All the way back to the beginning, really. Right off the bat, he hadn't heard what Blair was trying to tell him, he had let his fear guide his behavior, instead of his Guide. Surely that was why he was here. "The Frisbee?" he said to Blair.

"Jesus." Blair turned his head away, his voice suddenly thick.

_Shit_, Jim thought, _wrong answer_. Although he wasn't sure what kind of reaction the right answer would have gotten. The smell of salt was overpowering suddenly, and he dialed it down to a manageable level.

And wasn't _that_ weird? It didn't seem right that he should be able to dial his senses down in Hell. Shouldn't everything be at the max, to make it as painful and miserable as possible?

He realized that Blair had been talking again. "…you just _left_, and…and I guess…I guess I wanted, I _needed_ some closure…"

His head was pounding. His body felt like it was on fire, and he was desperately thirsty again. And he was so confused.

Blair was crying violently now; his body heaving with hoarse, gasping sobs; his arms wrapped around his torso; words flowing out so fast and so jerkily that Jim could barely follow them. "…I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sorry, it's all my fault, I fucked up again, screwed everything up _again_, just like I did before, just like with Borneo, just like with Alex, I forgot, I lost sight of what's really important, and I know you're angry about it, and you can't forgive me, you can't trust me, but I'm sorry, I just wanted to see you, and tell you…"

And now he understood. Pain was nothing, thirst was nothing, this was the real damnation. To lie here and see Blair so distressed and be unable to do anything about it. With what felt like a Herculean effort, he plucked weakly at Blair's sleeve. "Blair. Stop. Don't. S'okay. Not mad."

Blair turned to face him, dragging his sleeve across his face, his eyes red. "You're…you're not mad?" he asked, sniffling.

He tried for a smile, but had no idea if it was actually showing up on his face. "No. Not mad. Love you." What the fuck. He might as well spill all his secrets. No point in hiding anything, now. Confession was supposed to be good for the soul. And he had the feeling that his soul needed all the help it could get.

"Dammit, Jim…" and he felt a quick thump against his shoulder, like Blair had punched him there. "Why the _hell_ didn't you mention that? Just slipped your mind, huh? And why the _fuck_ did you leave?"

He remembered the sorrow then; heavy, smothering him. "Didn't need me anymore."

Blair just stared at him, mouth open, blinking, as if he didn't know what to say.

Then Blair was turning, looking out across the lake, and Jim could dimly hear a thwapping sound, like someone was rhythmically beating a rug with a broom, and Blair was at the other end of their raft, jumping up and down and waving his hands in the air and screaming.

The next few moments were very confusing. He kept slipping in and out of awareness. At one point there were other demons on the raft with them; these, at least, were bright orange, but they didn't have horns or a tail. And then they were lifting him, and putting him into some kind of cage, and he started to struggle, because he knew what was going to happen now; they were going to take him away from Blair.

And even though Blair was a demon, and not the real Blair, he didn't want to go, because he'd missed Blair so much, and even a fake Blair was better than no Blair. "No," he moaned, "don't…" He was still so tired, and confused, and someone was still beating that damn rug, just going _at_ it, like fucking _clockwork_, and his head still hurt, and his leg, and he was furious that he couldn't stop the tears that were leaking out of the corners of his eyes and sliding down his face, and all he could do was grab the sides of the cage and try to pull himself out.

"Hey, hey, hey…." Blair – well, the demon-Blair – was at the side of the cage patting his shoulder reassuringly, although Jim could barely feel his touch. "It's okay. It's okay, Jim, relax."

"Don't go," he gasped.

"It's just for a little while. They're going to take care of you now, and I'll see you later."

Blair slid his hand into Jim's, and Jim clutched at his fingers convulsively. "Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise," Blair said, squeezing his fingers back, but there were shadows in his eyes.

And Jim knew he was lying, but it wasn't Blair's fault. _Duh, Ellison, what did you expect_? he chided himself. _No rest for the wicked, remember_? It was Hell, after all. You weren't supposed to get what you wanted. At least he'd had a little time with Blair. "Sorry," he grated out, grasping Blair's fingers once more.

Blair didn't say anything, but the sadness in his face deepened. Jim sighed, and closed his eyes. The cage rose up off the raft, and started heading across the lake, and, in spite of the pain and the fact that that goddamned rug-beater was nearby, and _still_ going at it, Jim found it relatively easy to just slip off into the quiet, blessed darkness.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again he felt much, much better. The pain in his leg wasn't gone, but it felt far away, across the room somewhere, and his head didn't hurt. He scanned the room cautiously. From what his senses could tell him, he was in a hospital. Someone was standing at the foot of his bed, and his heart leapt, before his focus sharpened and he could see that it wasn't Blair. For a second, he'd thought maybe it hadn't been a dream. 

The person – a young man, blond, couldn't be more than twenty-five – smiled at him. "Mr. Ellison, good to see you awake. I'm Dr. Cavanaugh. You're in Manteo General Hospital, on the mainland."

"What happened?" he croaked.

"Well, you've broken your right leg, but fortunately it was a clean break, and Mr. Sandburg got it immobilized quickly, so there was no significant internal damage. You'll be in a cast for six to eight weeks, though. And both you and Mr. Sandburg are being treated for exposure and dehydration." He made some notes on the chart, then looked up at Jim. "You're a pretty lucky man, Mr. Ellison. If your friend hadn't been there, you'd have probably drowned when the water rose. I'm still amazed that he was able to drag you up to the roof."

"He's stronger than he looks," Jim replied. "How long were we up there?"

"About eight hours," Cavanaugh said. "We're gonna keep you overnight, just to make sure there're no complications, but if everything goes well, you can leave tomorrow." He replaced the chart and headed for the door, glancing back at Jim as he left. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before choosing to ride out a Category Four hurricane."

The hurricane. Now he remembered…

**TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER**

Jim stood on the balcony of his apartment, looking out at the increasingly cloudy sky. Hurricane Dolores was about 200 miles out, due to make landfall in just a few hours.

He was one of only a few people who remained on this tiny strip of sand, situated between the mainland of North Carolina and the Atlantic Ocean. Most of the residents and tourists had evacuated. Unlike the others who were staying, though, he didn't think he was going to survive the night.

He could feel the storm pressing on him, even from this distance. He really didn't know what would happen once it hit; he figured the pressure would overwhelm his other senses and induce a massive zone. At least that was what he was hoping for. That way no one would have to feel responsible.

When he'd first moved out here, seven months ago, it had just been a place to retreat to, a place far away from Cascade and the achingly empty loft that used to be his home. He'd appreciated the peace and quiet of a tourist town in winter; he might have left once summer approached and the crowds thickened, except that Dolores showed up, gathering strength off the coast of Africa. And he'd begun to think that maybe there'd been a method to his madness, after all.

He hadn't brought anything with him from Cascade, and he'd bought only the bare essentials here, so he didn't really have much to take care of. Nevertheless, as he moved back inside the apartment, he went over his mental list for what had to be the twentieth or thirtieth time.

A fierce pounding on the door distracted him, and his heart sank slightly. Probably Rudy, the town sheriff, trying to convince him one more time to comply with the mandatory evacuation order. Jim had made it pretty clear, before, that they'd have to remove him by force, and he wouldn't go quietly, and Rudy had made it pretty clear that he didn't have the manpower to do that, so he didn't know what else they had to talk about. He thought about ignoring whoever it was, but, if it was Rudy, he wouldn't just go away.

It wasn't Rudy, that much he could tell when he glanced through the peephole. The guy had his back to the door; he had short, dark hair, stylishly cut, and he was wearing an expensive, charcoal-grey suit. He looked like a solicitor. But who the hell would go door-to-door trying to sell something with a hurricane coming?

Jim yanked the door open, fully intending to tell the guy to go fuck himself in no uncertain terms. His words died in his throat as the guy whirled to face him.

It was Blair.

Blair pushed past him into the apartment, pulling off the dark mirrored sunglasses he was wearing. He looked sleek and hip; he had an even, golden tan and the suit flattered him. "What the _fuck_ are you doing?" he asked, in a low, tense voice. "There's a goddamned hurricane bearing down on this place."

Jim was in shock. "I know," was the only answer he could come up with.

"And?..."

"I'm gonna tough it out."

"Of course you are. Army Ranger and all that."

He had regained a little equilibrium now, and decided that the best defense was a good offense. "Sandburg, why are you here?"

The look Blair gave him was like an arrow in his heart. "Why am I here? Why am _I_ here? I think the better question would be, why are _you_ here?"

"What do you mean?"

"You…left. You left your job, you left Cascade, you left our…your home. Why?"

He shrugged with what he hoped looked like casual indifference. "It was time to move on. The job was getting old, I wasn't getting any younger, you hadn't been home in months…" Crap. He hadn't meant to let that last one slip out.

Blair gave him another pained glare. "Look, I didn't ask for this. Let's not forget whose idea this was, and whose opinion wasn't asked for."

It was true, Jim reflected. It had been his idea, and his alone, to have a second press conference, recanting Blair's and offering to provide concrete proof of his abilities. He hadn't asked Blair or told him anything about it, he'd just done it, afraid he'd lose his nerve if he thought about it too much. He'd just known that he couldn't let Blair throw everything away like that, just to protect him and his secret. Surprisingly, the first few weeks had been okay. He'd had to jump through innumerable hoops, take interminable, repetitive tests; but Blair had been there, at his side, for most of it, so it was bearable.

But then Blair had defended, and then written up his dissertation for publication, and even when he was home he was working, day and night, and Jim had started to feel like he was living with a ghost; he could see evidence of Blair's presence, but never actually saw the man himself.

Although even that had been better than the book tours, and the publicity tours, and the frantic phone calls from people in Michigan, and Texas, and Florida; people who had heightened senses, and had read the book, and were desperate to find help. So then Blair was gone for weeks at a time, with only brief emails or hurried phone calls for contact. And it wasn't that Jim was jealous – he wasn't, because he could remember all too clearly how terrified _he'd_ been, before he'd met Blair – but it was all just leading him towards the inevitable conclusion that the only thing that had been keeping him and Blair together was the Sentinel thing. He'd thought there was, hoped there was…something more, something…deeper, but there wasn't, at least not for Blair. There was for him, but not for Blair, and once he'd realized that, he didn't want to stay in the loft anymore. He didn't want to be anywhere, actually.

His hearing was getting spotty, he realized; cutting in and out. The storm was getting closer, and the pressure was starting to affect his other senses. He needed to get Blair out of here, before the bridge to the mainland closed. "You're right," he said, "I didn't mean to sound like I was accusing you. I know you've been busy. Hey, this is the brass ring, right? The appreciation, the recognition for your work. That was the whole point of my going public." He took Blair by the elbow and steered him towards the door. "Look, I can't explain it all now. You gotta get back to the mainland. There's not much time before the storm hits."

"Why don't I just wait it out with you?"

"No!" It came out sharper than he'd intended, and he made an effort to calm himself. His sense of touch was fading now; he could barely tell that he was gripping Blair's arm. It was like there was static crackling through all his lines. "No, I've got a special arrangement with the sheriff here, to stay," he lied desperately. "But it won't cover you. You've got to get to the mainland before they close the bridge." He pushed Blair out the door unceremoniously.

"But…"

Frantic to get him moving, get him off the island, Jim said the first thing that came into his mind. "Come back, after the storm, and we'll talk then." It meant Blair would be there, would be nearby, when they found him, which he hadn't wanted. He'd figured that, by the time Blair was notified, everything would have been taken care of, and it wouldn't be too hard for him. Kind of like ripping a Band-Aid off quickly. But that plan was shot to hell now.

His vision flickered alarmingly, but he noted, with relief, that Blair was turning away from the building. "Okay," Blair said, sounding unconvinced, but heading towards his car nonetheless, "but I am, I'm coming back, right after the storm's over, because there's some stuff we need to talk about."

"Okay," he agreed, forcing a false cheerfulness into his voice. He waited just long enough to see Blair start his car up and head out towards the road before closing the door.

His sight was going on and off now, like being in a dark room with a strobe light. He felt like he was drunk. He staggered towards the bedroom but crashed sideways into the wall instead, and collapsed onto the floor. Either the storm was moving faster than expected, or he'd underestimated the effect the pressure was going to have on him. It didn't really matter now, although he wished he'd been able to get himself into bed. He hated the thought that the rescue squad was going to find him sprawled against the wall like this, looking helpless, vulnerable. He lay, powerless, as each of his senses flickered and, then, cut out completely. The last one to go was hearing; with the remaining shreds of his awareness he could hear the wind screaming as the storm came ashore. It sounded human.

* * *

The rustle of fabric pulled Jim out of his memories. He looked up to see Blair leaning against the door jamb, dressed in a pair of scrubs. "Where's the suit?" he asked Blair. 

"Ruined. Armani and salt water don't go together very well."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I hated it. It was a recommendation from my publisher. Made me look more professional, she said. The haircut, too." Blair walked slowly into the room and perched on the edge of Jim's bed. "Now do you remember how we got here?"

Jim cocked his head, squinted, then shot Blair a wry glance. "Yeah. You came back. But I still think it's the Frisbee, Chief."

Blair smiled, but the noise that came out of him sounded more like a sob.

"Seriously," he continued, "if I hadn't zoned on that thing, if I'd just walked away, you would have given up on me. You'd probably have published your dissertation a lot sooner – "

"And I'd be just as miserable and lonely as I am now," Blair said fiercely, his voice low and tight. "Or I'd be dead. Because I'd have found Alex, remember? And you wouldn't have been there to bring me back." He looked away, swallowed. "You were…were you…you weren't really going to…" He trailed off, staring down at the floor.

There was a long silence. Finally Jim broke it. "You said it, Chief," he murmured, "I'm a self-destructive, arrogant schmuck."

"Up on the roof, you said you loved me." Blair didn't look up from the floor. "You said I didn't need you."

He sighed. "I do. And you don't."

"You're wrong." Blair stood up and paced over to the window, staring out at the evening gloom. "The first few months, yeah, I was caught up in it. It was pretty intoxicating, being called 'Dr. Sandburg', doing interviews, having people – colleagues, other academics – suddenly interested in my work. But after a while I realized there was something missing. Something I'd come to rely on, trust in." He looked back at Jim. "Home."

Jim cleared his throat. "I put the loft in your name. You can go home anytime you want."

"Don't you get it, man?" Blair said, wearily. "It's not home to me unless you're there." He shook his head dejectedly, his shoulders slumped. "I thought, when I gave the press conference, that I was making the right decision, for once. I was thinking about you, about our relationship, that I didn't want to lose that. But then you…." He stopped, and swallowed. "You gave up so much; I thought it would be ungrateful of me to complain about how hard it was to be away, how unhappy I was feeling. So I kept on working, even though none of it was good anymore."

And now that he looked at Blair, _really_ looked at Blair, he could see the signs that he'd missed before. Blair had lost weight, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. His skin, under the salon tan, had an unhealthy sallow cast to it, and his nails were bitten to the quick. But the biggest change was in his eyes. Before all of this, they'd been bright and snapping with energy. Now they were flat and dull. "I'm sorry, Chief," he said heavily. "Looks like we both made the wrong decision for all the right reasons."

Blair didn't respond, and another long silence fell between them. Finally Blair raised his head and turned to look out the window again. "I do, too, you know," he said softly.

"Do what?"

"Love you."

And in spite of everything that had happened, all the things that had been said, and not said, Jim felt his heart lighten, like a weight had been taken off of his chest. Maybe things weren't as bad as he had feared. I mean, just a few hours ago he had believed that he was in Hell. Compared to that, this was Paradise. "You know, I was thinking…" he said.

The bare ghost of a smile curved Blair's mouth. "Dangerous territory, man."

Jim gave him a trenchant look, but otherwise ignored the jab. "I don't really have anything to do now, and it sure looks like I don't have a place to live, after this. Maybe I could come and stay with you for a while?"

The stunned look on Blair's face was almost priceless, and Jim found himself hard pressed to suppress a grin.

"I mean, maybe I should start working on my own book—" but suddenly Blair was in his arms, and kissing him, and he thought, for a brief second, that maybe he actually had died, and ended up in Heaven, because he'd never felt – never seen, heard, tasted, touched, or smelled - anything so good in his entire life.

When Blair pulled away, his eyes were alight and sparkling. "Your own book, huh?" he teased, the smile on his face incandescent.

Jim was sure the one on his face was nearly as brilliant. "Sure. I think it's my turn to be the observer for a while. What do you think of 'Confessions of a Reluctant Sentinel'? Or maybe 'The Complete Idiot's Guide to Enhanced Senses'?"

Blair's laugh was like music. "Whatever, man."

He cupped Blair's face in his hands, letting his fingers skate gently over the rough burr of Blair's stubble, and pulled him close for another kiss. "Welcome home, Chief," he murmured, just before their lips met.


End file.
